


Trying Times

by alyjude_sideburns



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyjude_sideburns/pseuds/alyjude_sideburns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has tried to kill Blair - but it was Jim who got the dose of poison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trying Times

 

 

**Trying Times by Alyjude**

 

Everything is quiet now. Simon is upstairs, watching over Jim, who is finally sleeping. The loft is a mess but I'll clean it up later, when this is really over. And it will be over. It has to end. Doesn't it?

I was raised to value life, to abhor violence. I'm a dyed in the wool pacifist and I've never wanted to take a life; not even in self-defense. But if I see her? Can get close enough? I will kill her with my bare hands. For what she has done to Jim because she was trying to get to me.

Do I blame her? Should I blame her? She's unbalanced, no doubt. Needs help. Don't we all. She definitely belongs in a padded cell and if I survive this? I'll join her.

Cassie Wells. Director of Forensics, Cascade Police Department. Only she isn't. Cassie Wells, I mean. She was, no is, Barbara Logan. Cassandra Louise Wells does exist, or she did, before one Barbara Logan, frustrated academy dropout, diagnosed schizoid and Jim Ellison groupie, killed her and took her place.

I would love to say that I knew something was wrong all along but I can't, because I didn't. Should have. But didn't. Jim would be quick to blame hormones, pheromones, whatever; tell me I was too busy looking at her legs... or at something else. But he'd be wrong. For months I've only had eyes for one person, and I don't think I've ever noticed his legs. His smile? Yes. His eyes? Definitely. His chest? Oh, yeah. But I've never really gone as low as his legs.  Of course, I'm not really used to even looking at guys that way, so I probably wasn't concentrating on the normal areas; but then, are any of Jim's areas normal? Yeah, you got it, it's Jim. So no, I wasn't really attracted to Cassie.

But you know, I did identify with her... she was determined to fit in while at the same time maintaining her own self-image... sound familiar? And Jim treated her like... well, like the guys treated me in the beginning... hell, like some of them still treat me. Okay, so I was a fool... I guess I empathized with her. And Jim? Obviously on some Sentinel level, he recognized her as the threat she was.

But who could know to what degree that threat would manifest itself? I mean, shit. No one could have predicted that she would try to poison me... with some exotic CIA-manufactured drug... or that Jim would get it instead.

Simon keeps telling me that I'm lucky. If I had taken it, I'd be dead now. Jim's alive. Thanks to his senses... but he doesn't remember anything now. Well, that's not accurate... he doesn't remember the last four days... gone, pfffft... just like that. Oh, and he doesn't remember me either. He knows who and what he is... remembers his whole fucking life... just not the last four days or Blair Sandburg.

*****

**Four Days Ago -- Bullpen**

"Hey, Chief, looks like you've got an admirer."

Blair Sandburg followed the gaze of his partner to the large, colorful basket sitting on the detective's desk. "Could be for you."

"Card says, _'Blair, just because'_..."

"The Blair part would indicate me."

Blair dropped his bookbag and while one hand plucked the card, the other was busy tearing through the blue cellophane that kept him away from all the goodies. "No signature and I don't recognize the writing, you?"

"Nope. But whoever sent it has great taste."

Both men began to pull items out of the gift basket. Two bags of gourmet flavored coffee, flavored coffee stirrers, two boxes of special blended teas, one package of almond biscotti and one package of hazelnut biscotti, a hand-painted coffee mug, a box of imported chocolates that Blair had to rescue from busy Sentinel fingers, a tin of fois gras and a box of Carr Crackers.

Blair was impressed. The fois gras alone cost about fifty bucks. But he was also puzzled. Who knew about his passion for flavored coffee stirrers? He didn't use them anywhere but at home...

"I think you're being wooed, Sandburg. Got any ideas?"

"Haven't even had a date in weeks."

"Maybe a student?"

"I'd think so, except finals are over and a student wouldn't send the basket here..."

"Good point. Okay, I say we just sit back and enjoy."

"Uh, we?"

"Partners in everything, Chief."

"Oh, yeah?" Sandburg's hand slapped the detective's, which was surreptitiously making its way back to the chocolates.

"Come on, Chief, share."

"Share? The only thing you want are the chocolates."

"And?"

"I don't believe it. You don't seriously think that batting your eyes at me is going to get you this box of imported chocolates?" The box of chocolates ended up in Ellison's hand. "I'm only giving you these because you look really pathetic batting like that... can't have the great detective James Ellison being ridiculed."

"Gee, thanks, Chief. I'm all tingly here with emotion."

"You eat all those chocolates and tingly will be the best you'll feel."

"Moderation in all things, Chief."

"Ummph."

*****

I had to fix some of that gourmet coffee. I was cold and tired and still not really awake and I was really looking forward to trying the flavored stirrers. I fixed my coffee and got Jim a cup at the same time. I took the mugs back to the desk just as Jim was getting up, saying that a report was ready in Forensics. I told him to sit, enjoy, I'd go get it. I'd be dead now if I'd let Jim go... if I'd let well enough alone... Damn, why didn't I?

I hadn't put enough creamer in Jim's coffee, a simple error. He keeps extra packets in his desk so he just whipped one out and since he just didn't want to get up and get one of those stupid little plastic stirrers? Yep, you guessed it, he simply reached for one of mine. They were sitting right there -- vanilla, cinnamon and mint -- he just grabbed one, plopped it into his mug and then... drank his coffee. Just like that.

The stirrers had the poison. See? Someone knew. Knew that only one person would use those stirrers, only one person liked those damn stirrers... but Jim just didn't want to get up and get... damn. Should have been me. Give anything if it had been... Anything.

I'd love to say the effects were immediate, that we knew right away that something was wrong. But again, I can't. Because we didn't. No, because _I_ didn't. Because... fuck, I let it go on for two days... two days it remained in his system, two days and two nights. Oh, don't misunderstand, I knew there was something wrong... something very wrong, but I just thought it was a 'Sentinel' thing, or a Blair Sandburg thing... so for two days and two nights I let it go on... lived with it... we can thank god that Simon is so observant and... tenacious.

*****

**Four Days Ago -- Bullpen**

"Here's the report, Jim."

Without looking up from the computer, Jim tried to grab the report from Sandburg's hand, but they missed the connection and the folder ended up on the floor.

"Damn, Sandburg, watch what you're doing." His voice was low, no anger, but cold.

Blair bent immediately to retrieve the folder but so did Jim. The collision was inevitable, but not Jim's reaction when their heads bumped.

"Fuck."

"Ow!"

"What's your problem, Sandburg?" Ellison's chair shot back as he threw himself up to face his bewildered partner.

"Nothing, hey, I'm sorry... we just..."

"Can the excuses and the get the hell out of my way." One strong arm moved, hand flat against Blair's chest and pushed. It wasn't as hard as it could have been, but it was enough to put the younger man off balance, causing him to fall against the wall. By the time Blair collected himself, Jim was gone. And Blair wasn't even certain about what had just happened. Jim hadn't raised his voice, hadn't yelled. Again, there'd been no inflection of anger... just that cold tone.

Blair quickly scanned the bullpen and relief rushed over him. It had happened so quickly and quietly that no one had even noticed.

So where was Jim? And what the hell had just happened? A sensory spike?

Absently rubbing his chest, Blair tried to decide what to do. He was debating the idea of sending out a one-man search party when Jim re-entered. With nary a glance at his partner, he settled himself back at his desk and began to peruse the report that had started the whole fiasco in the first place.

"Sandburg, get this shit off my desk." One hand waved abstractly at the basket.

"Jim, what's wrong, man? What's going on here?"

"There is nothing wrong, just get that crap off my desk."

Blair was dumbfounded. And apparently didn't move fast enough to suit the detective because he rose, smiling, and with one deft move, swept the basket and its contents into the waste basket next to the desk. He glanced at his watch, "Court. See you at home tonight." And with those words, he was gone again.

*****

Should I have made the connection then? Would anyone? Sure, in hindsight... I've got plenty of hindsight now. But, damn, it happened so fast and thinking back... it seemed so surreal, had a 'Did this really just happen?' quality to it... of course that night...?

Surreal became my best bud... surreal just waltzed in, sat down and decided living in the loft was the perfect place to be... and things got a lot worse. Way worse.

*****

**Four Days Ago -- The Loft**

It was Jim's night for dinner but Blair had the feeling his partner would neither cook nor remember to bring anything in, and since they needed to talk, Blair had stopped and picked up chicken, tortillas and salsa.

He had just changed into sweats when he heard Jim's key in the lock.

Blair was expecting many things when Jim walked in... but whistling? Not even in the top 10, or 20 or even the top 50.

"Feeling okay, Jim?"

Ellison dropped his keys on the table, pulled off his jacket and threw it over a chair and proceeded into the kitchen where he got down a bottle of Jim Beam's, a glass and poured himself a shot.

"Uh, Jim? Everything okay?" Blair took a few tentative steps toward the kitchen.

"I'm fine, Sandburg. Is this chicken supposed to be dinner?"

"Yeah, I figured you'd be tied up at court and wouldn't have time to pick anything up so I stopped at Seranina's."

Jim poured another shot and tossed it down. "Better than nothing, I guess."

He pulled out a plate, slapped down some marinated chicken, grabbed a couple of tortillas and the container of salsa and walked into the living room, clicked on the TV, set the food down and walked back into the kitchen for the Jim Beam.

All Blair could do was stare, open-mouthed and completely baffled.

"What are you staring at?"

What could Blair answer? Jim eating in the living room? Drinking Jim Beam? Or maybe the jacket, carelessly thrown over a chair?

"Jim, I think there might be something wrong with your senses. Have you noticed any unusual spikes? Headaches?"

"Yeah," he swallowed another shot. "You. You're giving me a headache, Sandburg."

"Jim, there is something seriously wrong, man and we've got to --"

He didn't finish. Jim stood and slowly, almost languidly, walked over to Blair. When he was face to face, he backhanded him.

The blow was so slow, so deliberate, that Sandburg wasn't even remotely prepared. There'd been no anger... no threat, nothing. But the blow was strong enough to send Blair flying back several feet and to land hard.

Blair's whole world tipped and darkness fought with the light. He shook his head, trying to clear it, his hand coming up to feel his face.

A shadow falling over him brought his head up sharply... Jim. The bigger man was standing over him and the expression -- no, lack of expression -- was more frightening than anything that Blair had ever experienced. "Jim... please, we need..."

But again, he wasn't given the opportunity to complete his sentence. Large hands reached down, grabbed his sweatshirt and pulled him up.

"Sandburg, I think you're tired, need to go to bed." Blair was _hanging_ by his sweatshirt, his body having been pulled close to the bigger man. The words were whispered and the cold tone sent the chills racing up and down his spine running for cover.

Jim Ellison lowered his partner and as Blair's feet touched the ground, Ellison released the sweatshirt. Blair almost fell again, but somehow managed to stay upright and without thinking he reached out to grasp the only thing available -- Jim's arm. His fingers dug in and he steadied himself.

At that point, Blair still believed in the world that said everything would be all right once they talked. But that world was about to collapse.

Sandburg noticed the stillness first. He was righting himself when he felt it. Jim, the loft, everything -- still... quiet. His eyes were drawn up to Jim's face and his breath left him in a hiss. Jim's eyes were locked onto his, the pupils dilated to the point of almost totally obscuring the blue. His mouth was open, his tongue sliding slowly across his bottom lip. Jim's hand came gently down onto the hand still digging into his arm, then tightened... and tightened again.

The pain shot up Blair's arm, forcing out a deep groan. "Jim... listen... oh, god."

The grip tightened yet again and just as the pain was about to force him to his knees – Jim let go. But before Blair could back away an arm came around his waist, pulling him closer. Blair was too stunned by this apparent 'about face' to move and when Jim's hand began to move sensuously down his back, roaming over the curve of his ass and coming to rest on one cheek... "Jim..." he managed to groan out, "need to talk, something wrong..." but a hard mouth clamped down on his, a tongue forcing its way in... a brutal parody of a kiss. Blair began to struggle then, but arms just tightened and he felt legs trapping him... _not this way_... _please, not this way_...

Blair felt sudden pain as Jim bit down on his lower lip, drawing blood. But the metallic taste galvanized the younger man and he pushed with his own considerable strength, yanking his mouth away and bringing up his only weapon -- his knee -- hard. Hands fell away and Jim doubled over.

*****

You think that as soon as Jim bent over I hightailed it out of there? Wrong. Jim beat me to it... he must have dialed down the pain enough to stand. When he straightened he didn't even look at me, he just limped over to the door, took his keys and... walked out.

As soon as that door closed -- the pain hit. My hand. My face. My lip. Everything. Have you ever had the dream fantasy of a lifetime turn into the nightmare that even Wes Craven would shrink from?

Do I have any excuse for what happened? For letting it happen? No. None. For one minute I wanted it. With every breath in me... I wanted what I believed Jim was trying to give me. I ignored everything that came before, ignored the evidence, the pain... his eyes. May God forgive me. I can't.

I was pretty certain that my hand was broken... but going to Cascade General was not my idea of getting medical treatment... Been there too many times, knew too many people. That left the free clinic.

A few stitches, several x-rays, a cast and one lecture on 'getting out of an abusive relationship' later I was standing outside our home; it was after 11 PM and I was looking up at the loft trying to decide if I should go in. Yeah, that's right... trying to decide if I should go in. No, I can't explain that. But I didn't. Go in, that is. But I didn't get help either. I could have gone to Simon's, solicited his help. But again, I didn't. Why? Why didn't I get help?

I was ashamed. On so many levels I can't even begin to comprehend them all. And -- something else... I had this overwhelming need to protect my Sentinel. I can't explain it any better than that. I - couldn't/wouldn't - let - anyone - see - him - like - this. So that left me. I'd have to figure this one out myself, on my own. No news there... years of practice. But I should have remembered what I'd learned in my years with Jim -- strength in numbers. Always have a backup. Isn't that what I'm always telling Jim?

With the aid of pain pills, courtesy of your friendly neighborhood free clinic, I managed to sleep -- in my car. Parked a couple of blocks from our home. Our home. Sounds nice. But unrealistic now. Not my home, not now.

The next morning I made sure Jim had left before going up, taking the best shower I could under the circumstances, changing and heading to the station. I had a plan. Jim would be in court and I'd have the chance to ask some questions, get some answers. It's nice to have a plan... to believe I had time.

*****

**Three Days Ago -- Bullpen**

Blair had parked the Volvo in the alley behind the PD building and walked in through the garage to make sure Jim was gone. After confirming the absence of the truck he took the elevator up to seven.

The first person he encountered was Taggert who after taking one look at him, marshaled him into the break-room. "Just one question, Sandburg. How does the truck that hit you look?"

"Bad, Joel, bad."

Joel pulled out a chair for Sandburg and both men relaxed into them. Blair was ready for the questions, ready with his obfuscations and ready with a few questions of his own.

"So? What really happened?"

"Well, Joel, it was like this... a few too many damp towels left on the bathroom floor and my roomie finally beat the shit out of me."

As expected, Joel scoffed and repeated his question. "Come on, Blair, spill."

"Don't go for the roomie story, uh? Well, you're right, the real story is way better. I stepped between a squabbling couple and she beat the shit out of me."

"Now that I believe, Sandburg. Guess you learned the hard way about trying to control a family dispute."

"Yeah. The real hard way. Joel, did you happen to see Jim this morning before he went over to the courthouse?"

"Yes, but come to think of it... he didn't even mention your little entanglement."

"He doesn't know yet... I wasn't exactly at home when this happened, if you know what I mean?"

"Well, he's gonna be fit to be tied when he sees that face of yours."

"I'm not worried, she's like, way bigger than him, he'll back off."

That brought out Joel's booming laugh. "Kid, you're alright. Coffee?"

Blair fingered his stitched lip and shook his head. "Don't think so, Joel. I'll be drinking cold liquids from a straw for awhile. Uh, Joel?"

"Yeah?"

"How did... Jim seem this morning? He's been a little under the weather; I'm worried."

Joel had just sat down again, coffee in hand and now chuckled at the question. "I swear, I don't know which of you is worse as the mother hen... but to answer your question, Jim seemed fine. No, that's not exactly right... he mentioned a headache and it must have been a whopper because he kept pinching the bridge of his nose? Like he was trying to push it away."

"Did you happen to notice anything like that yesterday?"

"Yeah, yeah, I did. The same pinching motion after he returned from court. And he must have downed five or six aspirins too. What's going on?"

"You know Jim... suffer in silence. But I was afraid of this, might be that new flu going around."

"Well you'd better hogtie him and get him to slow down."

"One can only try, Joel. Do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"If I miss him today, keep an eye on him?"

"Goes without saying."

"Thanks, Joel. I'd better check in with Simon then head over to the University."

Blair pushed his chair back and headed back to the squad room only to be brought up short as he approached Jim's desk.

Yellow tape declaring the desk a crime scene was wrapped around the desk and a five-foot area surrounding it.

"Hairboy, what happened to you?"

Blair turned and looked up into the smiling face of Henri Brown. "I ran over a truck, what's with the tape?"

"Isn't it obvious? A crime scene. There was a murder."

Blair felt his knees weaken, his vision narrowing, sounds diminishing. From a great distance a voice brought him back. "Sandburg? Come on, kid, can you hear me?" Everything came back into focus and he found himself sitting in Simon's office, head between his knees, Simon kneeling next to him and massaging his neck.

"Brown, what the hell happened out there?"

"I don't know, we were joking about the tape around Ellison's desk and Hairboy went pale and nearly dropped."

Blair lifted his head and looked into Simon's worried brown eyes.

"Sandburg? You okay?"

"Yeah, Simon, sorry about that... I took a couple of pain pills and I guess..."

Simon's expression said he wasn't buying. "Well, you took two years off my life, years I can ill afford to lose."

"Sorry, H. Uh, what was all that about Jim's desk?"

"Rhonda found two dead rats by the desk and I kinda... put up the tape... you know, thought he'd get a kick out of it."

"Brown, don't you have some cases to solve?"

"Right, Captain. Sorry." Brown beat a hasty retreat and Banks turned his attention back

to the pale man before him.

"Give, Sandburg."

"Sir?"

"Stitches, cast, bruises... you look like shit, you nearly deep-six out in the bullpen when Brown gives you his little line and no, I'm not buying pain meds."

"I look like shit because I feel like shit and I did a stupid thing last night when I got between an angry husband and wife and this is the result and I think it... just all caught up with me..." Blair finished by taking a deep breath and looking Captain Simon Banks straight in the eye. Simon stared thoughtfully back.

"I'll accept that for now. For -- now, Sandburg."

Simon stood and went to his coffee pot, poured some, offered to Blair, who shook his head, then taking his cup he made himself comfortable and sat back in his chair.

"Has Jim seen you?"

"No. Got home this morning after he'd left."

"Pressing charges?"

The question was asked so innocently, so nonchalantly, that Blair fell right in. "Charges! Why? I would never..." he stammered out then realized what he'd almost given away and promptly shut his mouth.

"Blair?"

"It was just a misunderstanding, no big deal. They even paid the doctor bill. No, of course I'm not going to press charges."

Simon gave him an appraising look. He didn't need Jim's Sentinel abilities to tell him Blair was lying. He only needed three years of close association. And Blair was lying -- not obfuscating, lying. And the fear that had begun to tie knots in his stomach told him this was serious. But he also knew he had to bide his time, maybe talk with Jim.

"Well, it's your decision of course, I wasn't there and you were, but experience tells me..."

"I know, Simon, but really, no good would come of my pressing charges, trust me."

The bigger man had the distinct impression that he and Sandburg were talking about two different things entirely. "I'll let it go for now, then."

"Thanks. Look, I've got to head over to the University... Jim will be in court all day, so I'll take this chance to do some catch up, if you've nothing for me?"

"Better you should go home and get some rest, you really do look like shit."

"Can't... Research."

"Well, then, take care of yourself and Sandburg? No more playing the hero, okay?"

Blair smiled ruefully and nodded, got himself up and somehow managed not to sway. At the door, just as he was about to make good his escape...

"If you need anything, Blair? You know you just have to ask. You do know that, don't you?"

Blair's hand froze on the knob. He didn't dare look at Simon, all he could do was choke out an answer, "If I didn't before, I do now."

*****

It took everything I had _not_ to tell Simon. Now? I wish I hadn't had so much.

I'm 29 years old. I cried when Maya told me she hated me. I don't think crying is a 'gender' thing, I think it's an 'upbringing' thing. And I was brought up to believe I could cry if I felt it, that it wasn't unmanly or 'womanly; -- it was just another method of expressing emotion. Men, women, children, even animals do it; I think God cries... when God is in His male mode and when She's in her female mode.

Me? I wanted desperately to cry, right then. But I choked it back. By that time I was experiencing something else -- guilt. A major guilt attack. Shame, fear and now guilt? Hey, I'm normally not into guilt -- I make a mistake, I say so and I try to move on, learn and move on, so what was so different this time?

'This' guilt was like a pair of cement shoes, weighing me down, sucking me under, warping my judgements, screwing with my mind. Somewhere, somehow, I'd got it into my head that I was at fault. _I'd_ done something wrong. Rational? Not hardly. But there it was... is. It would cost me dearly; I may pay for the rest of my life for all of it -- the shame, the guilt... I may lose Jim.

*****

**Three Days Ago -- Bullpen**

Somehow Blair made it out of Simon's office. As he passed Jim's desk, saw the tape again, something niggled at him... his eyes strayed down -- the wastebasket. What had Brown said? Rats. Two dead rats. At Jim's desk. But before Blair could process his thoughts, before he could dissect it and put it back together again... Jim walked in.

It was 11:45AM and the squad room was relatively empty. The two men stood a few feet apart, eyes locked, one waiting, breath held, for some sign that everything was all right again, the other finding his breath suddenly being forced from his lungs. _Enemy_... _no_. _enemy_... _no, mate_... _enemy_.

"Sandburg, we need to talk, now." Jim turned and moved out the doors, heading for the stairs. Blair, feeling hope for the first time in many hours, followed.

Blair got to the door, pushed it open and stepped into the stairwell. "Jim, thank God..." His voice trailed off; the stairwell was in partial darkness and Jim was nowhere to be seen. He took a few steps closer to the rail, and peered down but couldn't spot him. Hearing the door closing behind him and locking told him where the older man was now.

Jim stood, arms hanging loosely at his sides, a cold smile marring his handsome features.

"Jim?"

The man in question took two slow, easy steps toward his partner, Blair took two quick steps back and put out one arm in a placating gesture. Like lightening, Jim's hand flashed out and grabbed the offered arm. With a strong pull, Ellison yanked him in, flipped him around and twisted his arm up behind his back, then turned them both to the right and pushed Blair hard into the wall.

Jim pulled the one arm down and held it against Blair's side and, using his own larger body, pressed Sandburg even harder into the wall, trapping him there, chest to back, leg to leg. Blair was as effectively pinned as an entomologist's favorite subject. He could move nothing; breathing was difficult and his mind was swimming with the suddenness of the move and the pain.

Just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. Jim's hands grasped each of Blair's and swung them over his head, one hand then imprisoning them, cast and all. Blair wouldn't have thought it possible, but somehow this gave Jim the means of pushing his body even 'deeper' and 'harder' against Blair's.

"Jim..." It came out as a hoarse whisper.

Jim lowered his head to bring his mouth next to Blair's ear; his tongue flicked out, teasing, while at the same time his hips drove his body into the younger man's. There was nothing erotic, sensual or loving about the move and the only thing that kept Blair sane at that moment was the thought that Jim wouldn't do anything, couldn't do anything here, not in the stairwell, not in the building that housed Cascade's finest. He'd hurt him, certainly, but nothing more? That was when Blair realized Jim was hard and he could feel that hardness pressing into him...

"Jim... Jim, listen... to... me."

"You listen to me," his voice was low, cold, "We're going down these stairs, to the garage and to the truck, you don't fight, you don't speak, am I understood?"

The voice of his best friend -- the man he loved -- held the kind of menace that gave Blair a glimpse into the man who'd been in Covert Operations... the man who could kill.

"Blair? Say 'yes'."

An important piece of Blair Sandburg was lost in that moment. The moment he gave his answer. "Yes."

*****

I was afraid. I was afraid of James Joseph Ellison. I've been afraid before. Waking up in a dentist chair with a serial killer touching your face ranks at the top... until that moment I had to say... 'yes'. Yes. Without a fight, no struggle. Just a pathetic yes. I couldn't have said no.

Now? Sure, I can rationalize. If I didn't do exactly what he said what was the alternative? Would he have pulled his gun? In the garage? Would other officers have believed me? Pulled their weapons on Jim, on one of their own? How many would have gone down? Before they got Jim? Or before Jim got me?

I was afraid for James Joseph Ellison. I would take what he had to give... do what he said, submit... to avoid the two scenarios I could not allow. To see his body, at my feet, riddled with bullets, killed by his friends, because of me. Or put away for life, prison or a mental institution because I lay at his feet, dead.

The walk to the truck was the longest walk of my life. Oh, I was planning a move... but for the truck, for once we were safely away from the station, I was planning on talking my head off -- and if that didn't work? I planned on jumping.

*****

**Three Days Ago -- Cascade PD Garage**

"Jim, what are you doing?" This time Blair couldn't hide the panic seeping into his tone.

When they'd gotten to the truck, Jim had guided him to the passenger door, opened it and once Blair was seated, had reached over and strapped him in.

"Wouldn't want anything to happen to you, would I?" Jim pulled out his cuffs, locked one end on Blair's left wrist and left the other dangling -- until he climbed into the driver's seat. He then casually took the dangling cuff, pulled it and Blair forward until it reached the steering column, then fastened it around the metal. This maneuver pulled Blair painfully against the harness, which caused the harness and seatbelt to do exactly what it was designed to do under pressure -- tighten.

Blair thought his arm would be pulled from its socket, while at the same time he cursed his overly-protective partner who'd had a harness style seatbelt system installed in his 1969 truck for the express purpose of protecting his partner. That selfsame system was now effectively cutting off a good deal of Blair's much-needed oxygen supply.

If he had hoped for outside intervention, that hope would have been gone. Anyone looking in would assume Blair was just reaching for something.

The drive to the loft was interminable. And made worse by the horrible grin Jim directed at him at every opportunity. And the way he would reach over and pat Blair's cheek or rub his finger over Blair's lower lip, or take a piece of hair and rub it between two fingers.

At one signal, Jim leaned over, placed his hand behind Blair's head, pulled where there could be no pulling and kissed him. The kiss was harsh and brutal as Jim plunged his tongue as deeply as possible... pulling out only when Blair's jerking told him that the younger man was about to pass out. The kiss opened the stitches on his lip and when Jim saw the blood he took his index finger, ran it over the red liquid and then put it to his own mouth.

The truck finally stopped. But they weren't in the front of the building. Jim had pulled into the alley behind their home and parked next to the back entrance. He shut down, reached over, unsnapped the seatbelt and caught Blair as he fell forward when the belt retracted.

Blair dragged in huge lungs full of air and slowly came back to earth to discover that Jim was holding him. Just holding him. No -- holding on to him. "Chief? Head... can you help? hurts... please."

"Jim?" he croaked.

"Enemy."

"No, Jim, not the enemy, listen to me..."

Jim's body stiffened, his hand went down to the cuff, fumbled, his breathing became harsh, his hand finally steadied and Blair found his hand free. He started to pull away, to look at Jim, but his already abused wrist was gripped in the vise that was Jim's hand. His arm was pulled roughly back followed by his right.

"I don't think this hand cast is going to get in my way." Blair felt the cuffs lock.

*****

Scared shitless. Yep, now I know what that stupid expression means. I had a fear so large, so deep that I doubted my ability to ever recover.

How far would this go? We were fast approaching a point where I feared for Jim's sanity. What would happen to him if -- no, when, we fixed this? And he realized he had done 'things', actions, that maybe, he couldn't live with? 'Things' that could destroy him.

Of course I wasn't thrilled with the 'things' I was imagining either, or how I would be able to handle them and I was really wishing I'd told Simon. I'd been so damn sure I could avoid Jim, get a handle on this, whatever this was... I'd come to the conclusion at some point, that Jim had ingested something that was wreaking havoc on his brain... and that something was being either helped or hindered by his senses. I'd also figured out that _I_ was the catalyst. From what little I had been able to glean at the station, Jim was behaving within the normal parameters with everyone else. Except for the headaches. And I'd seen a glimmer of that in the truck.

Of course, having an idea of what was wrong and being able to fix it? Yeah, you've heard it before, two very different things. Okay, I'm not being very original here, but hell, I'm tired, sick and scared.

*****

**Three Days Ago -- The Loft**

The short trip upstairs, hastened for once by a 'working' elevator, was uneventful. They met no one and there was no opportunity for Blair to get away with Jim keeping him so close to the chest.

As they approached the door Blair felt such dread flow over him that he literally thought he would faint. He knew that once inside, once the door was closed to the outside world, he and Jim would be lost.

Jim opened the door, placed his hand on Sandburg's back and pushed hard. With his considerable strength behind the push, Blair never had a chance to stay on his feet. His body literally flew through the air and all he could do to protect himself was to twist and try to save his broken hand from further abuse. Blair landed facedown, the left side of his face and head striking the wood floor so hard that even a non-Sentinel would have heard the impact of flesh and bone meeting the hard surface.

He must have passed out for a few minutes because when he came back to reality he was being dragged across the floor to the stairs. His face was throbbing and his head had set up a matching rhythm, his lip was bleeding, he could taste the blood and he knew he was coming to the end. His abused body was screaming and his mind was telling him that he and Jim were close to a point of no recovery.

"Jim... JIM ELLISON... listen to me."

The movement stopped. Blair could only imagine how they must look -- Jim's fingers wrapped in his collar, Blair, cuffed, body twisting as it was dragged -- now still -- blood running from his mouth, his blue sweater stained with it, his face swelling...

"Jim Ellison, look around you. This is your home... the loft. Look at the pillows on the couch, the blanket draped on the back..."

He tried to swivel his head back and up, tried to get a glimpse of Jim's face... to gauge the effect of his words, but the sudden dizziness stopped him. He didn't want to pass out now. He'd keep talking for as long as Jim let him.

"Ellison. Look at the pictures on the bookshelf."

Jim's fingers let go. The detective walked over to the shelves and Blair tried to twist onto his side to watch.

"Look at the pictures, Ellison. You, at the race track with Simon and Joel."

Jim stood, unmoving, gazing as he was directed. One hand went out cautiously... touched the picture in question.

"You're Detective James Ellison. You protect the people of Cascade, Washington. You're a Sentinel, Jim Ellison. You protect."

"Protect? Protect the Guide."

_Protect the Guide? Where did that come from?_

Blair's lips were swollen, his throat raw, but he had to keep talking, clearly and with as much strength of command as he could muster.

"Protect the Tribe, Sentinels protect the tribe, James Ellison protects the tribe. You are James Ellison. Repeat your name; James Ellison."

"James Ellison."

"I protect the tribe... Repeat it, I - Protect - The Tribe."

"I protect the tribe."

Jim's fingers trailed over the other pictures, lingering over one of the two of them at the river. He rested his head against the shelf, absently pinching the bridge of his nose. "head hurts. need something. head hurts... help me?"

Blair debated. Tell Jim to uncuff him and risk the man fixating on him again? Or keep him thinking until maybe, he uncuffs him himself? On his own? He didn't know how bad the headache was but Jim's body language was worrying him. He was afraid that Jim didn't have much time. He decided to risk it and he grabbed onto the 'Guide' reference.

"Ellison, release the Guide."

Jim lifted his head. "Guide. Protect the Guide, release the Guide."

He moved toward Blair, hand reaching into his pocket, pulling out the key.

_please let this work. please. he's in so much pain. come on Jim, a little farther_...

Jim leaned over and unlocked the cuffs. "Help me, please?" Jim's face was pale, a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. His breath was coming in painful, shallow gasps and his eyes...

_Drugs? Jim was drugged?_

Maintaining his voice of authority was hard, when curling up in a ball seemed so much better, but that wouldn't help his friend. "Ellison, help the Guide get up."

Jim did as he was told. He stood, reached down, put his arms around Blair's waist and lifted.

*****

**A Little Earlier -- Major Crimes**

"Simon? There are two men here from the FBI, an Agent Sully and Agent Mueller."

Simon was surprised. The FBI? "Show them in, Rhonda."

Rhonda nodded and opened the door wider, allowing two men access to Simon's office.

"Gentlemen, I'm Captain Simon Banks, how can I help you?"

The taller of the two, and clearly the older, spoke first. "Captain, I'm Agent Sully and this is my partner, Agent Mueller."

The men shook hands and Simon indicated the conference table where all three took seats.

"I won't waste your time, Captain, we're here because -- two weeks ago -- a vial of an experimental toxin was stolen from a research lab in San Francisco, California. The CIA tracked the theft to one Carl Logan."

"Wait a minute, the CIA?"

"It was one of their research facilities. Once the theft was tracked to Logan, they turned it over to us."

"Let me guess -- I don't need to know why." Both men smiled.

"No, Captain, you don't."

"So? How does this investigation lead to Cascade and to my department?"

"Mr. Logan decided to make a little trade. It would appear that he stole the vial for his sister, Barbara Logan. And according to him, she works for the Cascade PD in the forensics department."

Simon sat forward, but before he could speak, Sully held up his hand. "We know. We checked your database and found no Barbara Logan employed in any department within the PD. However, a fingerprint ID did come up with a match. The fingerprints we have on file for Ms. Logan matched the fingerprints you have on file for a Cassandra Louise Wells. Your Forensics Director, I believe."

Simon's face revealed none of the shock he was experiencing. A sense of déjà vu a lá David Lash/Anthony Bates, struck him hard. "You're saying our Forensic Director is actually someone named Barbara Logan? And that she may be in possession of an experimental toxin?"

"That's about it, yes."

"This is it?"

"Not exactly. The real Cassandra Wells is presumed dead, at Barbara Logan's hand. Miss Wells left San Francisco for Cascade, five days before your Miss Wells reported for duty."

"So Logan took Wells' place? How? Cassie Wells was interviewed six weeks before being hired."

"Miss Wells was interviewed by one individual, not a panel as is the custom in most cities. The individual who conducted the interview was Dr. Nancy Simpson -- and she died two weeks before her retirement, and that was three days before Miss Wells was due to report."

"Shit."

"And to answer your next question, yes, we believe Logan killed Dr. Simpson as well. Miss Logan has a history of mental illness and was diagnosed with schizophrenia eight years ago."

Simon quickly digested all of this new and startling information. "I'm still puzzled. Why are you seeing me?"

"We have already spoken to your Commissioner and attempted earlier today to apprehend Miss Logan, but were unable to locate her. According to her brother, the toxin is intended for someone who works for you. A Mr. Blair Sandburg."

This information brought Simon to his feet, the events of the last twenty-four hours playing across his mind. Too coincidental. He hurried to the door and got Rhonda's attention.

"Rhonda, get a hold of Ellison at the courthouse and tell him to get over to the University, now. Then try to get Sandburg at his office. This is urgent."

"Simon, Blair must be here. When I came back from lunch a short time ago, I saw his car parked on Stanton. And Jim isn't at the courthouse; Max told me he returned before noon."

"Find them, Rhonda, now."

Simon didn't like any of this. He turned back into his office, stood for a few minutes letting several isolated incidents coalesce in his brain.

The basket delivered anonymously to Sandburg. Jim's headaches. The dead rats. Sandburg's condition. His response to Brown's murder comment. Blair's behavior in Simon's office just before noon.

Rhonda poked her head back in. "Simon, no luck locating either of them, but Officer Malloy said he thought he saw them leave together a little after twelve."

Simon strode to his phone, picked it up and dialed the loft.

*****

**The Loft -- Same Time**

Jim's arms were still around Blair when the phone rang. Blair attempted to disengage himself but Jim just tightened his hold.

"NO."

"Ellison, let go."

"Enemy."

"No. Guide. Protect..."

Jim's fist smashed into Blair's face. Blair's body fell forward and Jim caught him over his shoulder.

The phone rang again and Jim winced in pain. He walked over to the offending object and with one hand balancing Blair, he used the other to rip the phone away from the wall. Then he moved upstairs, stopping long enough to pick up the cuffs.

Exploding pain brought Blair out of the darkness to find that he was hanging upside down. He was slung over Jim's shoulder and they were almost at the top of the stairs.

Instinct kicked in as Blair realized he would have to fight. He certainly wouldn't have to worry about doing any damage to Jim. That couldn't happen. All he had to do was slow him down enough to get downstairs, to the door and out. Enough to run.

As Jim's foot landed on the last step, Blair latched onto the stairpost. It was enough to cause Jim to stumble and Blair twisted himself off the larger man's shoulder, using the post as his leverage. Blair shoved his elbow into Jim's back with all the strength he had left and was rewarded by a grunt of pain. Here was his chance. He started down but was wrenched back by Jim's hand buried in his hair.

Blair felt himself tossed into the bedroom like so much garbage. He landed and rolled into the dresser. He tried to get to his feet before Jim got to him but couldn't, so he settled for a fast crawl... if he could just reach the bed, pull himself up, find something, a weapon... the lamp?

Jim's hand, once again using Blair's hair, pulled his head back sharply, stopping him cold. But it didn't stop Blair's efforts to get away. He immediately struck out with his legs, turning and reaching up and back with his hands, connecting with flesh and digging in with his fingers. His legs connected at the knee and Jim stumbled again, his hold on Blair's hair loosening. Blair used that to pull away, flip himself over and kick up. The kick was aimed well but Jim was ready. He grabbed the leg and gave it a vicious twist. Blair screamed.

All coherent thought left him as the pain surged up his tortured leg. He scrambled, using his hands to dig into something, capture some hold, some leverage. Jim dropped Blair's leg and as it hit the ground the pain piggybacked on pain, but this time the only sound he issued was a pitiful mewling.

Blair's left arm was lifted and re-cuffed and he was dragged, unresistingly now, toward the railing on the other side of the bed. Jim pulled the empty cuff through one railpost, yanked Blair's other arm up and cuffed that wrist. Blair was now a prisoner, trapped, lying face down, cuffed to the railing in a place he called home, by the man he called friend.

He expected to feel the muzzle of Jim's service revolver pressed to the back of his head at any moment, but there was nothing except the sound of his own ragged breathing and the thundering of his blood coursing through his veins. It wasn't a gun that finally came to rest against his head, it was Jim's hand, fingers tangling in his hair, massaging, moving, exploring.

*****

Jim went down, straddling the prone figure below him. His head throbbed, and the conflicting emotions, thoughts and words swirling around in his brain served only to increase the pain. He concentrated his senses on the body under him, shutting out all other sights, sounds and smells. He bent forward, breathing in the scent. Blood. Fear. Blood.

_Enemy -- mate._

Hands began pulling at material, ripping. The body began to writhe and jerk, trying to buck him off. Words assaulted him. "No... Jim, no, don't do this... protect, Jim, protect..."

Pain -- Throbbing pain.

*****

Jim's hands tearing at his sweater brought Blair back and he realized what was going to happen. His body rebelled. He began to twist, buck, fight, anything to get Jim off. But it only served to enrage the larger man. Hands began a rough and brutal exploration of his body, pulling at the remnants of the sweater and shredding his t-shirt.

"No... Jim, no, don't do this... protect, Jim, protect..."

There was a low moan and Blair realized it wasn't coming from him. "Protect, Jim, protect."

Jim's hands reached under Blair, fumbling at his zipper and trying to pull his jeans down over his hips. Blair began to fight in real desperation now, body jerking up, twisting, rolling, his hands straining against the cuffs, pulling against the rail, straining against his imprisonment.

Hands in his hair, gripping, wrenching his head back, Jim's mouth latching onto his throat, at the hollow where neck and throat meet, teeth biting down, deep and deeper still, blood welling up and a scream of pain and rage being torn from Blair's throat.

"NOOOOO!"

Jim collapsed over Blair's body.

Minutes passed and there was no movement from Jim. Blair could hear nothing but the labored breathing of the man whose body was sprawled atop his own. Blair was having difficulty breathing, the weight of Jim's body constricting his lungs. He was close to passing out. He had to get Jim off. He bucked once, twice, and Jim's body slid off.

Blair could see Jim's face. If he'd been pale before, it was nothing to how he looked now. Jim was sweating profusely and his breathing so shallow that Blair was afraid Jim was dying. "Jim, please hang on... don't leave me... Jim, just hang on..." It was the barest of whispers, of prayer.

Pounding. Someone was pounding on the front door.

"ELLISON! SANDBURG!"

Blair opened his mouth to yell Simon's name but no sound issued forth.

The door was broken down.

*****

I look at the time before Simon's arrival and marvel at the human brain. I was battered, bruised, beaten and broken, but as I lay there, I remember feeling no pain, nothing, nada. I was concentrating so hard on Jim. Willing him to keep breathing, to stay with me. I can still feel the all-consuming need to touch him, to connect, as if in touching him I could force him to stay with me, force him to live. I actually struggled more with the damn cuffs. My wrists were already raw and bleeding, but for a few minutes I actually exacerbated the damage as I tried to pull my hands out, figuring there was enough blood to lubricate my wrist and give it a good shot. When that didn't work I went crazy. Started to yank at the cuff chain, trying to break it or smash the railing, something, anything, just so I could touch him.

I didn't have much voice, but what I did have I used to alternately curse the cuffs, the damn railing, myself and God... then began begging, pleading and crying.

I remember finally letting go, my body going limp with a feeling of defeat, but realizing that I could touch him. I could use my leg. Jim was on his back, so close that if a hand were free I could easily have reached his face, so I just draped a leg over him. Then I pulled until our bodies were touching. And promptly got frustrated again... because all I really wanted was to put my arm across his chest and pull him safely into me. And I couldn't.

I didn't know Simon was on the way, that when no one answered, not even the machine, he had grabbed Joel Taggert and the two FBI agents and raced over here, lights and sirens clearing the way. What I did know was that if Jim died, I would follow.

I remember lying there... and laughing -- okay, croaking, at the thought of our bodies being found like this, no explanation, no one knowing the truth... and I was okay with that, okay with dying, as long as it was with Jim, as long as I could touch him, as long as his face was the last face I saw.

*****

**Two Days Ago -- 852 Prospect**

They found Jim's truck parked in the alley and Joel spotted the blood on the seat and on the door and the trail of blood on the asphalt, leading into the building. That was all the two men needed. They ran inside, took the stairs two at a time, the agents close behind.

At the door to 307, Simon paused, held up his hand to the others and listened. Hearing nothing, he indicated that they take position on either side of the door, pulled his gun and knocked. No answer. Simon called out Ellison's name. No answer. He pounded on the door and called out both names. No answer. He looked over at Joel, who stood, gun poised, and nodded. Simon stepped back, took a deep breath and kicked the door down.

Simon went in low, Joel high, the agents bringing up the rear.

Nothing. The loft looked normal. Except for the phone, lying in the middle of the floor.

Four pairs of eyes scanned the room. Simon was about to wave Joel into Blair's room when he heard it -- a groan. And something... rattling.

He moved back and looked up. Hands, cuffed to the bedroom railing -- and hair... long, brown, curly hair.

"SANDBURG!"

Knowing Blair was up there, seeing the blood now... did nothing to hurry their cautious move up the stairs.

Once at the top and satisfied that there was no danger, Simon let himself look down. The vision would be forever imprinted on his brain.

Blair lying face down, handcuffed, the blood, his sweater and t-shirt in shreds around him, his jeans partially lowered... and Jim -- lying next to him -- with Blair's leg draped over him.

"Oh, God." Simon quickly holstered his gun, barked an order to one of the agents to get an ambulance and then dropped down beside Blair, Joel dropping beside Jim.

Simon got the cuffs off and pulled Blair into his arms, checking his condition. Blair, with his arms free, immediately reached out one bloodied hand and touched Jim's face. "Help... he needs... help, drugged, dying... please Simon..."

The words were barely discernable, Simon had to lower his head to Blair's mouth to hear him. "Okay, Blair, take it easy, we'll take care of him."

Agent Sully bent down next to Jim and began to check his vitals, his pupils and shooting questions at Simon, Joel and Blair. "Are they related?"

"No," Simon answered, understanding that the questions were vital, "They're partners and roommates."

"Lovers?"

The barest whisper from Blair answered him. "No"

Agent Sully looked at the mess that was Blair Sandburg, looked into his eyes and understood everything that the 'no' said and didn't say.

More gently he asked, "Did he do this to you?"

"Yes, but... not... his fault... drugged, please?"

"I know, Mr. Sandburg, I know. We will help him."

Sully looked up at his partner who was already reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small box. He handed it to the older man who popped the lid and extracted a small vial of colorless liquid and a syringe.

"Let's hope we're in time and the doctors are right and this antidote works." He injected it directly into Jim's neck. "If we are in time and this does work, we should see his breathing improve almost immediately."

They were -- and it did. Color suffused Jim's face and his breathing stabilized.

Blair's hand, which had been resting against Jim's face, now dropped. Pain-filled eyes raised to the agent. "How?"

"Please, Mr. Sandburg, don't worry about it, your partner will be fine now, we were in time, just. Let's take care of you." Sully's voice was gentle and soothing and Blair let go.

"Simon, the blood." It was Joel, nodding down at Blair's neck. Simon's eyes followed.

"Shit."

Agent Mueller pulled a t-shirt from a drawer and handed it to Simon who immediately folded it and held it to the gaping wound.

Blair stirred at that and his eyes flew open. "Jim!"

"It's okay, Blair, Jim is fine, please, you have to hold still."

Bloodshot blue eyes looked up and tears began to fall. "Jim didn't know... you have to believe... can't blame him... pain, he hurt so bad... can't blame..."

"Sssh, we know. He was poisoned. Blair... did... did he..."

"No." Blair passed out again.

They could hear sirens and Agent Mueller headed for the stairs. "I'll make sure the paramedics get up here."

As they waited, Simon's anger at what he'd seen, his fear for Jim, for the young man he was cradling to his chest, undoubtedly contributed to the sharpness of his next words. "What - the - fuck - is - that - stuff?"

"Captain Banks, now may not be the time to discuss this, but I'll make sure that the doctors who treat Detective Ellison have all the information they need. And I will give you a full report after we've seen to these two men."

Simon couldn't argue with the gentle authority of the man, as much as he may have wanted to. He felt so damn helpless... but the noise from below heralded the arrival of the paramedics. Twenty minutes later both men had been stabilized and were being loaded into an ambulance.

My hand was re-set and recast -- yeah, it was broken again -- in three more places. They re-stitched my lip and the hole in my neck as well as my left wrist where the cuff had cut in too deeply. There were X-rays, MRIs, an ultrasound... I had a concussion, bruised ribs, two broken fingers, a hairline fracture in my cheekbone, my leg had been badly wrenched and I would be walking on crutches and for a while after that, with a cane, my shoulder was dislocated and my throat was cut and bruised and talking was very painful and frowned upon by the doctor who recommended that I refrain from the habit for at least 48 hours. Right.

I spent over four hours being 'treated' and not once did I stop. Talking that is. I guess you couldn't really call it talking -- foghorns sounded better -- but hell, no one would tell me anything about Jim, so I kept up the croaking sounds. Of course I was in shock and delirious, but that didn't stop me.

Eventually I was put into a room and since I couldn't rest until I knew about Jim, Simon had pulled his considerable weight and made sure I was put into the same room with you-know-who. That was good, but in the same bed would have been better. The demand to touch Jim, to reassure myself, to connect with him was as strong, if not stronger, than before. But I would have to content myself with looking. Which is exactly what I did. I looked for two minutes, closed my eyes for a second, really just blinked, and when I opened them again it was dark.

*****

Agent Sully had lived up to his promise, he'd filled in the doctors and then he filled Simon in on the exact nature of the toxin.

When I woke, Simon was there, seated next to my bed, looking worried. He looked even more worried when I told him to move. Well, he was blocking my line of sight to Jim and that line of sight was my only connection. But he did move. And reassured me that Jim was fine, just sleeping, a deep, natural sleep. The last blood test confirmed that there was no trace left... and I was reassured that there would be no complications, no residual problems.

Simon caught me up on Cassie Wells/Barbara Logan, told me that Cassie was gone, but there was an APB out on her... apparently she'd struck up a friendship with the Commissioner's assistant so she knew about Agent Sully and Mueller. She promptly emptied her bank account, packed a few things and split in that ultra van of hers.

Simon also explained the toxin. It had been developed as a terrorist's weapon and our government had gotten hold of it. Basically it acted on a part of the brain that controlled our violent tendencies and directed those violent actions at loved ones. Simply put, the victim would go 'postal', kill the wife, husband, children... well, you get the idea, then they would appear to suffer a massive and very fatal stroke. Pure, unadulterated terror.

Cassie -- Barbara -- soaked the stirrers in enough of the stuff that if I'd gotten it instead of Jim, it was assumed that I would have suffered the massive and fatal stroke within minutes.

So how did Jim escape the same fate? Well, I can assume his senses actually saved him, but what Simon told Agent Sully was that he'd seen Jim with the coffee and witnessed Jim spilling it... so everyone concluded that Jim had not ingested enough to cause an immediate reaction... and of course, they all agreed that they really didn't know enough about the drug to predict anyone's actions. Ridiculous. Phooey. The drug did just what it was supposed to do. But Jim's senses protected him and to a great extent, me. If not for his senses, he would probably have killed me immediately and died soon after.

Of course, I should have known that since no one really knew that much about the drug, their reassurances that there would be no complications, no residual effects was also a bunch of hooey.

*****

**34 Hours Ago -- Cascade General Hospital**

Blair had finally fallen asleep and Simon simply couldn't leave him. He stayed in the chair the rest of the night with the knowledge that Joel was covering things and with the hope that the hunt for Barbara Logan would turn her up sooner rather than later. He and Joel had also agreed that no one would know all the facts.

A groan from Jim's bed brought Simon to his side immediately. Groggy blue eyes opened, looked around, flicked over the room, landed on Simon. Jim smiled, his eyes moved away again, continued cruising the room, saw the other bed, saw Blair and... nothing. His eyes came back to Simon.

"Simon?"

"Jim, how do you feel?"

"Well, I don't feel like I was shot, stabbed, beaten, run over or any of the things that usually preclude an overnight stay in Cascade's finest."

"You left out drugged."

"I was drugged?"

"Well, poisoned."

"Who?"

"Cassie."

Jim's mouth gaped.

"Jim, you weren't the intended victim, Blair was."

Jim looked puzzled. "Who?"

Now Simon was confused. Was Jim again asking who had poisoned him?

"It was Cassie, Jim, like I..."

Jim was shaking his head. "No, who's Blair?"

Simon's mouth fell open. _Shit._

The big man quickly looked over at Blair and was thankful he was still out of it; he'd been through enough already. "Jim, what's the last thing you remember?"

The detective's brow furrowed as he tried to think back... then his face cleared. "Poker night. Don't remember who won though."

Poker night? Five days ago. And Blair had cleaned everyone out...

"Jim, do you hear anything outside this room?"

"The usual. I've got most of it turned down... why?"

"So your senses are... fine?"

Another frown creased his forehead. "Yes. They don't seem affected by whatever I was given... I can hear your heartbeat just fine."

_So he knows what he is._

"Simon, who is this Blair and what the hell is going on with Cassie?"

*****

Four days gone from his life. Oh, and one roommate, partner and friend.

Everyone is puzzled about why Jim doesn't remember me, but seems to have no problem with his loss of the last four days. Oh goodie.

Right after the 'I forget Blair' revelation, Simon pulled the curtain that could separate the beds and filled Jim in on Cassie and her poison plan and on his 'roommate', both hospital roomie and loft roomie.

Simon was damn closemouthed about the whole thing when five hours later I woke up. And found the curtain. And nearly fell out of bed trying to rip it aside. And when it was finally pulled away? And I saw no Jim? Yeah, I panicked -- big time -- thought he was dead. Ashamed to say I started screaming -- no one was bothered by the screaming -- I mean, I was really still just croaking... but now? No talking for another 48 hours. Right.

Simon came rushing in and tried to reassure me, but his heart wasn't in it; he knew what was coming. So he took a deep breath and told me, "They let him go home and-he-doesn't-remember-you-or-the-last-four-days."

They let him go home? That made me feel really good. And he doesn't what? Oh, he doesn't remember the last four days. And me. It was amazing. All I could think about -- was the loft. Yes, the loft. Had they removed the cuffs? All traces of blood? From the loft and Jim's truck? My shredded shirt and sweater? Righted the chest? Put the phone up and away? And the door, what about the door? Weird, huh? I simply couldn't handle the thought of Jim walking into his home and seeing the evidence of what had happened -- and what had almost happened.

Again, Simon rushed to assure. Yes, thanks to Joel. But it had been close. Joel, Rafe and Brown had just finished cleaning up the blood, both in the loft and the truck, disposed of the cuffs (evidence bag -- might be needed in a trial against Cassie -- that idea thrilled me no end), trashed the remnants of the EMTs, grabbed up my clothes, straightened the chest and were just setting the phone on the bookshelf when Connor walked in with Jim.

Right then and there, I made Simon swear that they, he and Joel, would never tell Jim the full extent of what had happened, of how the drug had actually affected him. That left Simon a little puzzled, I mean, he isn't as used to obfuscating as I am, so I provided the story -- Cassie tried to poison me, got Jim instead and when I realized what was happening I headed to the loft to 'save' him and was in an auto accident. Plausible? No. But so what? Jim didn't remember me anyway and my injuries certainly could have been the result of an accident... as long as Jim didn't get a real close look.

And of course, Simon didn't know everything so I had to obfuscate with him a bit too; told him that when the drug kicked in Jim kinda flipped out and we had a fight and then he flipped out again in the truck and by the time we got to the loft the drug was really taking over and we fought again and Jim won and well, upstairs, and fortunately...

And that's it, that's all anyone will know. Ever. Period. The real truth stays buried in my mind, where it belongs. If there are going to be nightmares? They'll be mine. Not Jim's, not Simon's, mine. Memories? Mine. Flashbacks? Mine. My decision. The Sentinel protects the tribe -- then the Guide will protect the Sentinel. Period.

The doctors wanted me to stay another 48 hours, probably to ensure the 'no talking' rule, but I said no way. No _fucking_ way. There was no way I could handle 48 hours without Jim -- without seeing him, hearing him, touching him -- and the idea that someone might say something wrong... guess it was a control thing. Jim would have appreciated that, if... I won't go there right now.

You know, it was Brackett that first used this 'Guide' thing... I didn't make much of it then, but Jim must have. I'd never researched the 'backup' native I'd read about, I'd always concentrated on the Sentinel... but now? Maybe this 'imperative' thing I'm experiencing, this need, is Guide-related? Jim protects the tribe and I protect the protector? Or maybe it was just because I loved him. Yeah, right, like I'd felt this way about the two women I'd actually loved in my life. Whatever it was, it got me home early.

And when I got home with Simon I barely made it to the couch before collapsing in a heap, breathing hard, sweating. Jim came over and man, it was so awkward. Simon kinda harumphed and went into the kitchen to get me some cold water and to let us talk.

Jim tried to apologize for not remembering me, but I gotta tell you, I felt so grateful to be looking up at him, to have him standing there, healthy and alive, that I gave him my best smile (which must have been gross under the circumstances) and assured him that everything was okay, we'd take it one day at a time and if things got uncomfortable... well, we'd see.

Jim seemed to believe me, seemed content with my words because he smiled in return. And then it got weird. Really weird. He reached out a hand, toward my cheek and he was smiling and... God, I almost blew it, almost lost it right there, almost flinched, almost backed away. But I didn't. I stayed where I was, kept smiling and this is the weird part, his hand gently brushed my bruised cheek and he said, "I suppose you usually look better than this." Well, that floored me. Completely.

I think I said something like, "not really, what you see is what you get," and Jim's smile got wider and he said...

"Okay." Yeah, he said, "okay." Weird? Very.

After that everything seemed fine. Simon actually fixed us dinner, we ate, it was nice, even companionable, no talk of Cassie as questions had been asked and answered and we were all working too hard at nonchalance.

Then Simon's cellphone rang. And Jim went crazy. Don't worry, not the same kind of crazy. This was a different crazy -- He jumped up and demanded that Simon give him his gun, kept insisting that someone was going to hurt his Guide, that he had to stop it, stop his Guide's pain. And I have to admit -- when Jim started ranting and raving, arms flying, I froze. Could not have moved to save my life. Thank God for Simon, again. He managed to grab Jim, wrap his arms around him and hold on until Jim quieted down. Then Simon did an amazing thing. He brought Jim over to me and pointed, saying, "Look, Jim, he's okay -- no one is hurting your Guide."

Even Simon thinks of me as Jim's Guide? Well, Jim calmed down but I still wasn't moving and Simon caught on, my white face being a dead giveaway, and he got Jim upstairs and to bed.

So we're back to the beginning. Caught up. Simon is upstairs with Jim and I'm down here. The front door is still broken, they only just righted it, no time to fix it, the furniture is all pushed against the windows, the EMTs did that in order to get out two injured men, and the phone repairman is due tomorrow. I feel like shit now -- someone else can clean up -- hell, I can't even walk, what made me think I could clean? I think I'll just stay right here, on the couch, for the next few years or so.

Except... Jim.

I'm lying here, fully dressed, it's dark out, the light is on upstairs and I can hear Simon quietly talking and I make my decision. I can't let Jim remember the last four days. And if he remembers me, he might then remember everything. So he mustn't remember Blair Sandburg. And to ensure that? I've got to leave. As I said before, only one person has to remember, has to know -- me. I can keep Jim safe by keeping the memories to myself and by getting me the heck out of here. Tonight.

"Blair?" Simon is coming down the stairs.

"Yeah, Simon, I'm okay, fine."

Simon turns on the lamp in the corner and looks around. "It's over there, on the kitchen table."

"You're not supposed to talk, Sandburg."

I take a perverse delight in not answering him.

He goes over to the table and picks up his cellphone, punches in some numbers and a few seconds later he's talking and I gather it's Joel. "Yeah, got it. No... not a good idea... oh, is she? Okay then, I'm on my way. Thanks, Joel."

"Simon?" He's walking over to me but I don't get the feeling of more bad news.

"Some new developments, I'm going to the station for awhile, but Connor is on her way. I'll be back later; I'm staying the night. And don't argue."

"Wouldn't dream of it... and Simon? Thanks. Jim... Jim and I appreciate it. Appreciate everything you did... you know what I mean."

"I know. Look, let's get you into the bedroom, get off those clothes and get you into bed."

"No, I'm actually comfortable (that's a lie) right now, like to enjoy it while it lasts. If Connor is on her way, go ahead and go, I'm fine, Jim is fine; go."

"Well, it looks important, a lead on Cassie..."

"Go, Simon."

He looks at me, glances upstairs, he's wavering.

"Simon, Jim is fine. Just because he doesn't remember me doesn't mean he can't handle anything that comes up, okay?"

That decides him and he nods. "Okay, but I'm leaving you the cellphone, use it if there's any problem, got it?"

"Got it." For someone who says I shouldn't be talking, he sure asks a lot of questions.

He hands me the phone, puts on his coat, starts for the front door, I clear my throat and he veers left, leaving by the back door.

Boy, I really didn't think it would be this hard to get up, but it is. Pain is lancing through my leg, my chest. But I've got to do this.

Okay, I'm up. Can't move, but I'm up. One step at a time, oh, yeah, I can do this, been walking for over 28 years... hell, I'm a genius. One foot in front of the other. I'm seriously thinking of calling a cab to get me the rest of the way to my room when the front door falls open.

I'd love to say my reactions were swift and decisive -- nope, took me 45 seconds just to turn my head.

Cassie -- Barbara -- stood there. She had a gun in her hand and at the moment it was pointed at me, specifically at a spot located just between my eyes. "You're in the way, Blair."

"I'll move. But don't hold your breath, I'm moving slower these days."

She goes on as if I hadn't spoken, as if she is thinking out loud, not really there. "I liked you. But you were always there. Between me and Jim."

"I'm sorry, Cassie, I'm... sorry."

"That's okay, Blair, I'm going to fix that now."

"I don't think so, there's nothing to be gained. Everyone knows who you are, 'Barbara', what you've done... killing me will just get you another life sentence tacked on."

"That may be true, probably is, but at this point? I'll settle for feeling better."

"Why did you come to Cascade? Was it Jim all along?" Stalling couldn't hurt.

"Yes, thanks to the wonder of news reporting, and if you're stalling? It won't work, Banks is busy chasing down false leads and the Aussie bitch has a flat tire."

"He doesn't remember, you know. Your poison did that, I'm no threat now."

Cassie was clearly surprised at this tidbit and I could see she was trying to decide if I was telling the truth... guess she decided it didn't matter because the gun, which had lowered slightly while we'd talked, was now raised to its former position.

"Cassie."

Jim's voice. Quiet, gentle. I turn my head and there he is, standing on the stairs, at an angle, he's in shorts, his arms raised, gun in hand, left hand supporting his gun hand, taking careful aim. "I don't want to pull the trigger, but I will. Now drop the gun and move away from Blair."

She's staring up at him, disbelief in every line of her body. "You won't shoot. Do you know what he's done to you?"

"Nothing Cassie, Blair's never hurt anyone. NOW - DROP - THE - GUN."

I could see she was wavering, starting to believe him, but I also saw her final decision in her eyes and I knew I was going to die.

Except.

She turned toward Jim. I realized in that same split second what she was going to do. She was going to shoot Jim. I launched myself at her.

As my body hit hers I heard the explosion as the gun discharged and I saw the gun in her hand, felt her body still trying to turn toward Jim and I reached up, God knows how, grabbed her wrist and we struggled, there on the floor, both our arms coming down as we fought for possession of the weapon -- and the gun went off... again.

Jim reached us just as it went off.

"BLAIR!" He was on his knees, pulling at me, hands running over my body, looking for the gunshot wound...

"Not me, Jim, not me..." I managed to croak out.

He looked over at Cassie and saw what I meant. She was dead. The bullet had entered her chest. And I was crying.

"Oh, God." Then Jim pulled me carefully into his arms.

And that was the scene fifteen minutes later when the cavalry arrived. A day late and a dollar short.

*****

I think I'm in shock. I just sit here, watching everyone move about... Cassie's body is gone, they're moving the furniture back, cleaning, hanging the door again, cleaning, hovering over me and cleaning... the blood, Cassie's blood. There wasn't much but I keep telling Megan, "keep washing, keep washing..," and so she does. I'm sure she thinks it's reaction, so she scrubs and scrubs, for me. But it's really for Jim... he'll see it and smell it for a long time otherwise.

So will I.

So Megan cleans.

"It's okay, Connor, you can stop now, it's gone." Jim is resting his hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to stop; she looks up at me, I look at Jim, who nods.

"You can stop. It's clean," I tell her.

She takes the pan into the kitchen. Jim is still standing there, looking at me with an expression I've never seen before and this is a first... Jim Ellison with an expression I don't know? But I'm too far gone to puzzle over it now.

The noise, activities -- people giving statements, my statement, have all served to wrap me in a cocoon of normalcy, allowing me to float, to not feel... but now? It's like I've been stripped naked and feeling all of the last four days and Cassie's death.

The very people and activities that protected me are what I must now get away from, quick. I don't think I can look at Jim for one more minute... seeing that look and feeling the absence of memory... of me. It's what I want, what needs to be to keep him safe, but the pain is eating me up inside. I struggle up with my crutch and Jim starts forward to help, but I wave him off and begin the tortuous road to my room. I see the spot where Cassie died and... walk around it.

I just make it to my bed and sit down, letting the crutch slip from my hand. I can hear them all talking, Rafe, Brown and Connor saying their good-byes, that they'll check in tomorrow and is everyone sure I'm okay... Simon saying someone should help me undress and Joel offering but Jim stopping him and saying no, he'll do it...

So now he's here. In my bedroom. "Thought you might need some help."

He's talking, but not making eye contact as he picks up my crutch and sets it against the nightstand. Before I can respond, he's gently tugging at buttons and pulling off my shirt, then down on his knees and taking off my shoes and socks.

"Jim, really..."

"No - talking." And he hands me a legal pad from my desk and scrounges for a pencil. "For the next two days, you write, not talk. Understood, Chief?"

I open my mouth to answer and he places a finger against my lips. For a guy who doesn't remember me? He's getting pretty fresh.

Jim gets back to the task of undressing me and I realize that it doesn't bother me. It should, shouldn't it? I mean... after the last time? I should be bothered, right? But I'm not. This is my Jim Ellison, not the one created by a drug. Just this man. The one I've known for three and half years, the one I trust and admire and love and must protect. So as he undresses me, so gently, so carefully, I just... let it happen.

I'm finally in my sweats and Jim helps me get into bed. "Get some sleep, we'll talk tomorrow. It wasn't your fault, you know that don't you? And Sandburg? Just nod."

I nod.

He turns out the light and leaves, but he must know how I'm feeling because he leaves the door slightly ajar, allowing a sliver of light to penetrate the darkness. Hell, I'm 29 and suddenly I need a nightlight? Yeah.

*****

Amazing, I've been lying here, trying not to think, trying to sleep. Simon's left, Jim's locked up and poked his head in here as promised, while I feigned sleep and now he's gone to bed and I can't stop thinking. Just once I'd like the Sandburg brain to shut off. Just - this - once. But it won't, and a phrase keeps circling around the little brain cells -- that I wanted to kill Cassie with my bare hands. And it was my hand that was on her wrist when the gun went off. God.

Yes, I know I did the right thing, the only thing. Cassie is -- was -- a good shot. She would have killed Jim and vice versa... so why am I chewing this over? Why can't I just let it go? And to make matters worse -- I keep thinking of that first kiss, before he bit my lip and before I understood what was coming, thinking how much I wanted the kiss. I almost melted, could so easily have melted into those arms. God, why won't these thoughts take a hike?

And now I'm back to my decision to leave. Can I do it now? Yes. Nothing has really changed. He must not remember. I push the covers away and labor upright, swinging one leg, lifting the other and I'm just about to try and stand when the whirling mass that is my thoughts, throws out a little tidbit -- "...Blair's never hurt anyone..." and if that weren't enough, this one came tumbling out too, "Understood, Chief?"

Never hurt anyone? Chief? He called me Chief. How? God. He remembers me. Does he?

Upstairs. Have to get upstairs now.

The French doors are pushed open and Jim is standing there, the moonlight illuminating his form. He looks -- afraid. "Blair?" His voice quivers.

"You remember who I am?"

"On the stairs... seeing Cassie, holding the gun on you -- so many visions, like a video... the truck, Serris, Maya, Lash, so many moments and always you. Saw Alex, the fountain, the temple..."

I flinch at that, but his next words chill me to the bone.

"...the gift basket, hitting you, hurting you -- oh god, Blair what have I done?"

Please. No. He remembers. All of it. God, no. The tears are stinging, I brush them away angrily, I'm mad, how could God, the fates, allow him to remember?

I - must - find - the - right - words. Or I will lose him... and what will he lose?

"Jim, come here, please? I can't come to you." He hesitates, but my voice can't be ignored so he comes.

"Please, sit. Here." I pat the space next to me. He sits, but at the other end.

"Jim, it wasn't you. It was a drug, a very dangerous drug. Do you understand? Cassie poisoned you. The drug works on an area of the brain that controls our violent..."

"I hurt you."

"No YOU didn't."

"I hurt you, tried to..."

"God dammit, look at me." My voice sounds like sandpaper and must be difficult for him to listen to, but he does. His head turns and his eyes stare into mine. I have to get through to him, have to.

"If not for you taking one of my stirrers, I'd be dead. Dead of a massive stroke. Get it? You saved me. And if not for your senses? I'd still be dead. The drug would have worked on you immediately and you would have killed me. And you'd have died shortly thereafter. You nearly did die, right upstairs, on the floor. You were minutes away from death and I couldn't touch you... I kept trying to tell you to stay, not to leave me but your breathing just got worse and worse and you were leaving me... and I hooked a leg over you and pulled you to me but I still couldn't touch your face, I tried to force you to stay with me..."

I was rambling, the emotions of those minutes being replayed and I could feel myself losing it, didn't know how to stop it...

"Dammit, Jim, we're alive. Do you understand? The only two other scenarios both would have left me dead and one of them would have left you dead too. But they didn't happen. I'm alive. You're alive. You remember me and I love you. Let your stupid anal retentive guilt go, god dammit."

He doesn't say anything, head hanging down, his hands playing at the quilt.

"Jim? Please. I can't lose you now. Not after all this. I was getting ready to leave. To walk out. To make sure you _wouldn't_ remember. I know you -- and your guilt. You probably blame yourself for World War II."

"Wasn't born."

"Okay, Viet Nam."

"Maybe."

"Shit, Jim. Come on, look at me, please?"

He does. He's crying. The tears tracking down his cheeks. I reach out, let my finger wipe one tear. "Please? Not your fault. Not mine. Not even Cassie's. Just... happened. But once again, we survived. We'll always survive if we're together... don't you know that yet?"

"I know it. I'll always survive if you're next to me, I do know that. But how can you forgive me?"

I have an IQ of over 170... I know there's a lot in that question. There is only one answer. "I have nothing to forgive. Nothing."

"Blair... you... love... me?"

Okay, his IQ is pretty high as well, but tonight, he's a little slower than usual. "Yes, I love you. Does that bother you?"

"Can't say that it does. No, it definitely does not bother me... unless you mean... like a brother?"

I can't help it, I laugh. I know exactly what he's talking about... a movie. But I also can't help but tease him... I'm feeling a little euphoric here, Jim's okay... I can tell, his body language and he's still looking at me and with the barest of smiles ghosting his lips.

"Yeah, Jim, like a brother..." I count to five and add, "...An incestuous brother."

I shouldn't be surprised by what happens next, but I am. He moves closer and puts an arm around me and his head dips and then he waits. I realize he's waiting for permission. I don't exactly give it, I just tilt my head up and kiss him. It's a careful kiss but it feels great. I don't even notice my lip. Judging from Jim's response, neither does he.

Now I'm not in the best of shape, but that does not stop Blair Sandburg, no sir. I manage to kiss every part of Jim's body that I can reach -- or get him to put within my reach -- and he manages to kiss and caress every part of my body that doesn't have a bandage, a cast, a finger brace, or stitches... it's fevered and frantic and slow and gentle, all at the same time and the best I can remember, ever.

*****

He's in my arms, I'm in his, we're both about to drift off... and he says it.

"I love you, Blair."

All's right with the world? Not yet, but it will be. These times are trying, but two people finding love? We can't go wrong.

FINIS

 

  
**Disclaimer:** All characters from **The Sentinel** are the property of Pet Fly Productions, Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo. Characters from any other television show, movie or book are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. We believe the works contained in this archive to be transformative in nature and therefore protected under the 'fair use' provisions of copyright law.

This story archived at <http://asr3.slashzone.org/archive/viewstory.php?sid=1215>


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